


A Hint of Lemons and Fate

by dawntreader



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Build a vineyard on an old weirwood grove, F/M, Fate, Romance, Wait for the roots to meld..., Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:22:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawntreader/pseuds/dawntreader
Summary: [REPOST]After a bad break-up and a bottle of "Imp & Viper" wine, fashion historian (ask her about the embroidery on Queen Daenerys' dresses!) Sansa Stark buys a run-down manor house in the Westerlands on a whim. After another bad day at the office and a bottle of "Imp & Viper" wine, history professor (ask him about knights, I dare you!) Sandor Clegane decides to move back to his ancestral home in the Westerlands, only to find out that it was recently sold to a certain Sansa Stark.OR"Sansa Stark's new house comes with a grumpy dog"





	A Hint of Lemons and Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Strangerween is Maroucia's creation in her story Scars, and Sevenmas is from the Starbird1 classic of the same name. The rest of it, of course, belongs to the master, GRRM.
> 
> This used to be several chapters, so let's try it as a one shot this time around ;)

1.1.

Sansa fell in love with Clegane Hill on a dreary Strangerday evening in early spring.

The north wind howled against the window of her old childhood bedroom in one of Winterfell’s tall turrets, bringing with it the peculiar mixture of hail, slush and existential dread that was so familiar to every true Northerner - or anyone who had ever had the misfortune of spending some time north of Moat Cailin any time after Strangerween and before the Mother’s Feast Day.

Sansa was miserable. She had already tried almost everything she could think of to cheer herself up, and now her fingers were itching to pick up her phone or her tablet again. No, she admonished herself, it would only hurt her to scroll through Joffrey’s social media. To see him, golden and tan, on a sunny beach. To see Margaery, the traitor, smiling next to him with her arm around his waist and her head on his shoulder, and - worst of all - wearing the bikini that Sansa had picked out for her after Margaery had told her about a mystery man in her life. Stupid Joffrey. Stupid Margaery. Stupid, stupid Sansa.

A hot bath hadn’t had any effect on her. Whatever mood-enhancing magic lavender bath salts and cleansing mud masks might promise on the label, it couldn’t compete with the loud screech of death metal guitar riffs coming from Rickon’s room, or the knowledge that her best friend had banged her fiancé on Sansa’s favorite Meereenese bed sheets. 400 thread count sheets in just the perfect shade of ivory to make Sansa’s pale skin look luminous against it. She had burned them, of course, as soon as she’d found out about the illicit banging.

A pint of ice cream seemed to be another accessory for the recently cheated-on, at least in the movies she had watched religiously as a girl. There was always a point, halfway through the movie, when the heroine would drown her misunderstanding-induced misery in a comically large tub of ice cream while wearing plaid pyjamas and with her hair in a messy bun. But Sansa would get bloated from too much dairy, and no one in her family had bothered to stock up on the lemon sorbet she preferred. She did wear plaid pyjamas, though, and her messy bun was one for the picture books.

Only alcohol was left on her list of stereotypical post-breakup cures, and she wrapped her fuzzy bathrobe tighter around herself as she sneaked out into the hallway. Her parents wouldn’t miss a bottle of white wine from the cellar, and even if someone encountered her now, what of it? She was 23 years old, a woman grown - and inexpertly bedded - with two links in art history from the University of King’s Landing. If she wanted to have a glass of wine with her heartbreak, no one could find any fault with that.

Sansa picked a bottle at random, from a low shelf near the door. It was only marginally dusty, which was a good sign in her eyes. She had never been much of a drinker. Any attempt to develop “a palate” had ended in the realization that she would most likely always prefer the sweetness of Arbor Gold to the more sophisticated notes of the famous Dornish Reds. The bottle in her hand seemed all right to her. A white wine from the Westerlands. The alliteration made her smile. The label was designed in tasteful swirls of red and gold, and in the twilight of the open cellar door she could make out a chimera - a mystical Essosi creature with the head of a lion and a snake for its tail - printed above the name of the vineyard. She had never heard of “Imp & Viper” before, but something about this reminded her of Joffrey. Her hand closed tighter around the neck of the bottle.

A short time later, she was back in her room, trusty Lady next to her on the bed, and a glass of white wine in her hand. Her mother was adamant that dogs didn’t belong on beds, or sofas, or anywhere near a dining table, but Sansa had never cared much for that rule. It had been hard enough to leave Lady behind in Winterfell, every time a new term had started in King’s Landing, and now that she was back - and most likely back for good - she wanted her dog around. Old guilt flitted through Sansa’s slightly fuzzy mind. Had she really left Lady with her parents because of her diredog size, and the superior walkies Rickon offered in the North? Or was it that Joffrey didn’t like dogs, and Sansa wanted to be liked by Joffrey? No, Sansa thought, raising her glass to the quietly sleeping Lady, her next home would have to offer woods, fields, and meadows for Lady to frolic in, and the next man in her life would have to like dogs. Would have to _love_ dogs.

The wine was wonderful, not as sweet as she was used to but incredibly easy to drink. The second glass tasted even better than the first. But even the wine couldn’t stop the itching in her fingers. Just one more time. One more little look. Really, what could it hurt?

It hurt a lot. Joffrey had updated his feed, and Sansa stared at the picture on her tablet with her mouth open and tears forming in the corner of her eyes. Joffrey and Margaery, kissing before a wall of glass overlooking Blackwater Bay. The picture was tagged with “#surprise #homeowner #lannistertower #allgrownupnow”, and the caption caused blood to rush in her ears. She couldn’t believe it. For years, Joffrey and she had dreamed of moving into the penthouse of Lannister Tower, the most coveted building in King’s Landing prestigious Red Keep neighborhood. Joffrey’s Uncle Jaime, an award-winning architect, had designed it, and Sansa had always admired the imposing shaft that so dominated the skyline of King’s Landing, erected in Jaime’s signature style of steel and glass. And now, Joffrey and Margaery-the-traitor had bought exactly the apartment Sansa had dreamed of since she was a little girl and had learned that some buildings were simply better than others. It was all so unfair. She poured herself a third glass of wine.

Stupid, worm-lipped Joffrey. Sansa flopped back into her cozy nest of pillows and spilled a little wine over her bathrobe in the process. She didn’t notice. Stupid Joffrey. She balled her hands to fists, her Stark pride pricked. Whatever he could do, Sansa could do just as well. And if Joffrey thought she’d mourn the loss of her dream apartment forever and would stay with her parents in Winterfell, like a Victarian era spinster? Ha! She would show him that she was just as much of a grown-up as he was. Apparently grown-ups bought real estate. She could do that! She had money! There was her trust fund, of course, but she’d have to wait another two years for that to start paying out, and she didn’t even know how much money it would be. She had never felt the need to ask, considering her parents already paid her a small stipend every month to cover her living expenses with…

Oh! Sansa sat up again, and it only caused her head to spin a little bit. Her Grandfather Tully had left her some money, too, and he hadn’t imposed any conditions on it. As far as she knew that money was hers to spend as she wished. Father had invested it all for her, seeing as Sansa had never had a head for numbers that went further than memorizing year dates, but he had also mentioned recently how exceptionally well her little portfolio was doing. Close to half a million dragons, he had said. A small fortune.

Yes, Sansa would buy a house. That would show him, and Margaery, too. Sansa skipped pouring herself another glass and drank a deep gulp straight from the bottle. She’d need a house in the country with all that nature stuff for Lady. Somewhere close to the sea would be nice, but not too far from a major city for her to find suitable employment at an art gallery, a museum, or maybe a well-regarded auction house. And it had to be something with character. Not steel and glass, but stone and wood. An older building. Not as old as Winterfell - hardly anything on the planet was older than Winterfell - but maybe a solid century old. A house to raise a family in. That wine was delicious.

It was astonishingly hard to type, but she finally managed to raven “old house for buying.” Sansa was very proud of herself. She opened the first link on the third try, and her small fortune melted away before her eyes like summer snow. Why would anyone ever want to pay such an obscene amount of money for a pseudo-Targaryen travesty like that? The real Dragonstone Castle was grotesque-looking enough, why pay four million dragons for a small-scale replica near Harrenhal? No, that wouldn’t do, and with strangely numb fingers - numb like her face, numb like her tongue - she changed the filter to show her the listing with the lowest asking price first.

Clegane Hill, Westerlands.

It was love at first sight.

  
  
1.2.

Sandor Clegane, Mae. (Lannisport), made the second-best decision of his life on a warm Cronday evening in early spring.

The sun was slowly setting, painting the gorgeous pinks and oranges so typical for almost life-threatening levels of air pollution on the sludgy waters of Blackwater Bay. Or at least, Sandor assumed that was happening now, as his crammed office had only one window and its view was the back wall of the biology department. Why the head of the history faculty of King’s Landing University had an office barely bigger than a medium-sized dog kennel was a mystery for the ages. Especially if the current interim-head of that history faculty was a man like Sandor Clegane. Much too large, much too scarred and grumpy to be kept in such a restrictive environment for longer than the ten minutes it would take to pull Meryn Trant kicking and screaming out of his corner office that overlooked the yard and to exchange the names on the doors. But Sandor had taken over from Barristan Selmy, who had lived a life as sparse as the Essosi mercenaries his research specialized in, only as a temporary emergency solution and had waited ever since to be released from the burden of bureaucracy that came with his new position. At least he had an excuse to keep his teaching hours to a minimum now.

Sandor took a look at the time and sighed. Another weekend spent at the office. Another long week of complaining students, complaining colleagues, of paper work, and meaningless drudgery ahead of him. He still had to finish that article about the Battle of Blackwater Bay. The deadline was looming, and there were rumors that Stannis Baratheon was about to publish on the topic. The journal of an eye witness of the Battle of Blackwater Bay had recently been unearthed in a forgotten corner of Oldtown’s great library, and Boring Baratheon of the Stormlands University at Dragonstone had tried for years to undermine King’s Landings standing as the number one authority on that particular subject. Sandor’s article simply had to be published first to take the wind out of Stannis’ sails.

At Sandor’s feet, Stranger stirred in his oversized dog basket, wedged between a replica of a Targaryen-era breastplate and a stack of advance copies of Sandor’s first pop-science book “ _Knights Are For Killing._ ” It had been a modest bestseller and established his reputation “the Hound”, both as a meticulous researcher sniffing out even the most obscure sources as well as the biggest critic of the still rampant public delusion that there had ever been true knights. Chivalry wasn’t just dead, it had never existed, as far as Sandor was concerned. Oldtown’s own prodigy Loras Tyrell had challenged Sandor at a symposium in King’s Landing three years ago - and had been brutally eviscerated in the debate that followed. Sandor smiled at the memory, as he opened up his research file and began to read an excerpt from the journal.

_“[…] the kiss of wildfire turned proud ships into funeral pyres and men into living torches. The air was full of smoke and arrows and screams[…]”_

Sandor closed the file again instantly, using a lot more force than necessary. Involuntarily he rubbed the large expanse of burn scars that covered most of the left side of his face and scalp. He caught himself, and with an annoyed huff he pushed his long, dark hair over his scars again, just enough to cover his missing ear.

He needed a drink.

While drinking on campus was generally frowned up, it was still widely practiced, and Sandor tried hard to at least cut back on the quantity and focus more on the quality of his still quite excessive alcohol consumption. Currently, the only available bottle of making-it-through-the-bloody-fire-passage was hidden away on the top of his bookshelf. Warm white wine from the Westerlands, how revolting. The alliteration was amusing, though.

He sighed, slithered out from behind his desk as gracefully as a man his size could slither, and - carefully evading the piles of stacked books and papers that littered the floor - made his way over to the bookshelf. The wine had been a present from a... childhood acquaintance, who had started his own vineyard on a sun-drenched Westerlands hill that faced the Reach, two years ago. Sandor gently uncorked the bottle and took a good whiff. “Hints of citrus, might be drinkable after all,” his nose reported back.

He poured a glass and held it against the fading light streaming in from his window. Yellow like the autumn grass of Clegane Hill. His eyes closed as he took the first sip. Citrus and apples, a brilliant freshness. Suddenly he wasn’t any longer in a cramped, stuffy office in King’s Landing. He was home again, stood on top of the small tower of Clegane Hill like he’d done as a boy, before him the rugged hills and rolling plains, the misty dales and glistening rivers of the Westerlands. Home.

The memory was over in a flash, and he laughed at his own silliness. Clegane Hill hadn’t been home to him for more than twenty years, and he hadn’t been to the Westerlands in ten, not since Gregor’s funeral. His glass was mysteriously empty already, and he poured another. For the first time in many years, he wondered what had happened to the house after his brother’s death. Eleanor had taken care of everything, as she always did, and he had handed over a power of attorney without a second thought. Had she sold it? Was it rented out?

His hand reached out for the phone to call and ask her. Only in the last second did he remember that it was already dinnertime in Lys, where his younger sister lived with her wine merchant husband and their two children. Dinner was important in Lys, he couldn’t disturb them. He took another sip.

The sudden longing for his childhood home intensified as he contemplated the tall stacks of paper that filled his office like an invading army breaching the defenses of a besieged city. When would he ever find the time to write his next book? All this research for nothing, what a waste. Here in King’s Landing summer would come, with its yearly strike of the grossly underpaid waste collectors, with its exams and students banging at his door with their bloody questions. And Sandor wouldn’t find the time to write the book he had wanted to write ever since he realized that all the old songs about knights were dangerous nonsense. But in the Westerlands… In the Westerlands, the air was clean and the proverbial grass was literally greener. There were no bluer skies in Westeros, no fluffier clouds. The sunsets might suffer in comparison, but who cared about sunsets anyway?

Sandor emptied his glass in one big gulp, then poured another. He could theoretically ask for a sabbatical, for one year away from the grindstone, to order his thoughts and put his words on paper. Stranger would love to frolic through meadows and forests, instead of being cooped up all day and having only two measly walks through the same dirty streets for diversion every day.

“You could chase rabbits,” he murmured. Stranger, fast asleep and used to his master’s random mutterings, didn’t even twitch an ear. A third glass was poured, and Sandor lost himself in dreams of a summer away from the crowded stench of King’s Landing. He could spend some time in the labyrinthian archives of Casterly Rock that had been his second home as a student. There were still whole rooms full of scrolls that no one had looked at in centuries. Oh, there were the green woods of Clegane Hill, full of tall, proud oaks and beeches, where Eleanor and he had played knights with their cousin every summer. He could eat good seafood in Lannisport, and rabbit stew in the small inn in Cliff, the village at the foot of the hill. He might even visit Tyrion and congratulate him on this excellent white that tasted better and better by the minute. A fourth glass was poured and emptied.

His mind was made up now. He would leave this shithole behind. For good. The first thing he did was compose an email to the Archmaester of King’s Landing University to inform him in no uncertain terms that he would not only not be back for the spring term but he would also not spend one more minute of his life on the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Other people could deal with one-upping Stannis Baratheon to keep the bizarre rivalry between King’s Landing and Dragonstone alive, but Sandor was out of here. A small part of his brain wondered briefly if “ _fuck the faculty, fuck the students_ ” was too harsh a wording. He sent it anyway.

He drained the rest of the wine straight from the bottle. Fuck, the Imp really knew his wine, didn’t he? His gaze fell on his email inbox that was as stuffed with unread nonsense as his office. Between yet another email chain of irate male egos fighting over meaningless trivialities, a familiar name caught his eye. Eleanor had sent him an email an hour ago. The subject read “ _Good News!_ ”, but when he opened it, shock hit him like a broadsword.

The house had been sold yesterday.

He couldn’t return to Clegane Hill, and stand on the tower where as a boy he had pretended to be a knight surveying his holdings. A woman from the North, a Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, had bought his house, his home, and for a ridiculously low price at that. Sandor balled his enormous fists. No, this wouldn’t do. He would contact this woman and tell her that it had all been a misunderstanding between siblings and the sale a mistake. That house was his.

The bottle of “Imp & Viper” still in hand, Sandor decided that he would spend the rest of his life at Clegane Hill.

2.1.

Sansa woke up to a pounding headache and the uneasy feeling that she had done something she was supposed to regret but didn’t. Feeding Lady under the table felt like this, or innocent flirting with Loras Tyrell, Margaery’s gorgeous brother, whenever Joffrey behaved like an ass.

Joffrey.

It definitely had something to do with Joffrey. Gods, no, had she drunk-dialed him? Blinking against the pale morning light that sent daggers of pain straight through her eyeballs, Sansa grappled for her phone.

There were no outgoing calls from last night and no messages, either. Sansa sent a quick prayer of thank you to the Seven and then focused back on the screen. She had three unread emails.

The first one was unremarkable. Her best friend, Jeyne, had sent her a link to a recipe that Sansa had wanted to try for a long time. The second one, however, was sent by a website called “ _cheapoldhouses.we_ ” and its subject line read “ _Confirmation of your Winning Bid_ ”. It made her sit up straight so abruptly that she felt dizzy immediately and had to lie down. She closed her eyes, counted to twenty, and opened them again.

The email was still there.

She had bought a house. A country house in the Westerlands.

Hazy memories came back now. Joffrey and Margaery-the-traitor. Her dream apartment in King’s Landing. Wanting to prove what a capable grown-up she was. Sansa groaned loudly, and a startled Lady, curled up at the foot of the bed, looked up at her mistress with worried eyes. Sansa groaned again, even louder this time. How many capable grown-ups got so drunk on a Strangerday evening that they bought houses in the Westerlands? Sansa was almost 100% certain that the answer was ‘zero’.

She clicked on the link provided in the email, saw the amount of money specified, and shuddered. Apparently, she had bid 200,000 gold dragons on a country house called “Clegane Hill” at the last possible moment of an ongoing auction. Hers was the only bid. Of course, it was. A dreadful queasiness now accompanied her pounding headache and the growing suspicion that she had really, really messed up last night. It was hard to focus on the text on the screen of her phone, but the phrase “uninhabited for some years and in need of complete renovation” wormed its way through her aching eyes without a problem. Steeling herself for the worst, she clicked on the link to the picture gallery.

Oh. So that was why she had done it.

The house was adorable. The pictures showed a slightly run-down mid-Victarian building that emulated the style of Braavosi architecture of the late Targaryen Era, complete with the sweetest little tower, castellated parapets, and large bay windows. Sansa’s treacherous heart immediately equipped them with just the right draped chintz curtains. A stone crest crowned the front door, but the photograph hadn’t been taken close enough to make out any details. Maybe she could get Father’s permission for a crest of her own?

“That doesn’t matter,” her brain interjected, “because you obviously will never live there.”

The house was came with a large walled-in garden. “Roses,” Sansa’s heart whispered as it continued its rebellion against reason, “roses and peonies, wisteria and hydrangea, and everything else that is beautiful and doesn’t grow outside of glass gardens in the cold North. Maybe a vegetable patch or two. You like chickens, don’t you? You could have chickens.”

The house, a snug 5,300 square feet, sat on a property of 3.8 acres. There was the garden, of course, but also a woodland area with tall, green trees. On an aerial photograph, Sansa could divine a small brook that ran down from almost the top of the hill into a small pond at its foot. In the woods itself, there were strange lines that made her check the description again. The hill had been the sight of a long-abandoned keep, demolished almost 150 years ago to make room for the house. Ancient ruins, how romantic!

Sansa went on to the floor plan, and her heart cheered, already tasting its inevitable victory. A large kitchen, four bathrooms, fireplaces, well-cut bedrooms. It was all so lovely that her battered brain’s objection, sounding just like “why are there no pictures of the interior, huh?” went unheard. This was Sansa’s future home. She would raise her family here. She could feel it in her bones.

She ravened the address and almost shouted for joy. Situated below Clegane Hill was the small, picturesque village of Cliff, complete with an inn, a greengrocer, a tiny sept and an even tinier post office, and seven B&Bs offering comfortable beds and traditional Western breakfast to exhausted hikers on the long-distance trail that led from Lannisport down to the Reach. A drive of 45 minutes during rush-hour would take her to Lannisport, where she could almost certainly find employment so suitable for a daughter of Winterfell that even her strict, traditional parents couldn’t object. And beyond Lannisport lay the blue of the wide sea, sandy beaches, and tall waves. Maybe she would pick up surfing?

“We’re moving to the Westerlands, Lady!” Sansa cheered and ruffled Lady’s furry cheeks. “To a place called Clegane Hill.” Lady, seemingly unimpressed and likely thinking about breakfast, deigned to answer her mistress’ excitement with a decidedly bored woof.

Grinning from ear to ear as much as her aching head allowed, Sansa opened the last email. The seller, a woman named Eleanor Rogare, congratulated her on her winning bid and politely assured her that as soon as the intermediary confirmed the receipt of 200,000 dragons, Lady Sansa could take possession of the property.

Sansa’s brow furrowed, and her hung-over queasiness intensified at the sudden realization that she would have to ask her father for her money. Ned Stark, as austere as the chilly Northern plains, was a man who considered most of the sweeter things in life unnecessary and everything else frivolous. He wouldn’t understand that Clegane Hill might be a little rough-looking and had certainly fallen on hard times, but that all it needed was some tasteful renovations and a loving heart to turn it into a perfect jewel. He’d use ‘the stare’ on her.

No, Sansa thought, that conversation would most certainly not be pleasant.

Groaning, she pulled her duvet over her head and promptly fell asleep again.

2.2.

Sandor woke up with yesterday’s happenings crystal clear in his mind, and immediately felt on top of the world. He had done it. He had finally done it!

Laughing, he jumped out of bed, almost stepping on Stranger’s hind legs in the process. He did the customary 100 push-ups and 200 sit-ups he did every morning right after waking up and added a five minute plank, just for the fun of it. What a wonderful feeling it was, to know that he wouldn’t have to return to his office again. He really should have quit years ago.

He made coffee, cracked a dozen eggs into a frying pan, added bacon and tomatoes. While his breakfast was happily sizzling and releasing aromas fit for the Gods, Sandor took his first look at his email inbox.

It had filled up overnight, in the wake of his resignation, with both in-fighting over the now vacant position as head of the faculty as well as the usual avalanche of nonsense that came every Mainday morning. The latest email was Bronn’s, however, and the subject line was “YOU SON OF A BITCH! HOW DARE YOU!!!!!”

Sandor laughed again, and slowly sipped his coffee. His position would go to Loras Tyrell this time, that much was obvious. The boy had simply been too young the last time around, but a couple of years and some very prestigious publications later, a prodigy with his connections was destined to get the job. The poor boy had no idea what was coming to him. But all that wasn’t Sandor’s problem anymore. The only problem Sandor still had was this Stark woman.

He pondered his next steps over his fry-up and half a loaf of bread. Lady Sansa Stark was bound to belong to the Winterfell clan, and he had run into some trouble with one of them, some years ago. Sandor bit off half of a strip of bacon and chewed carefully, trying to make sense of a dim memory. Stranger whined under the table and got the other half of the bacon strip.

It had been during his time on that joke of an Ethics Committee, that much Sandor could remember. A student had been accused of assaulting Joff Baratheon. Lady Arya Stark had been called up as a witness and had adamantly denied that her friend had ever hit Joff. It hadn’t done her friend much good. Money ruled the world, and Joffrey Baratheon was a legacy as well as Tywin Lannister’s grandson. Sandor had spoken up for the boy during the deliberations, half-heartedly and fully aware of the futility of it, as Baelish’s department needed new equipment, and everyone knew that. Stark’s friend had been expelled and the political science creeps had a new computer lab a term later. If Arya Stark was related to the woman who currently held his house hostage, Sandor’s problem might be even bigger than originally assumed.

The best course of action had to be honesty. No beating around the bush, just a simple letter explaining how it was his house and he wanted it back. Content with that plan, Sandor polished off his plate, fed Stranger, and finally called Bronn.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” his best friend greeted him. “Everyone’s talking about how you got blasted and quit last night. Kettleblack says you called the Archmaester a cunt and then went streaking across the yard.”

“No, only had one bottle of wine,” Sandor grinned. Fucking Kettleblack. How that one had ever found a job at their department, no one knew. One bottle of wine was barely enough for Sandor to get tipsy. “But I did quit. I’ll take the summer off to finish the book, and then I’ll look for a job in Lannisport.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“Not kidding. I’ll move back to the Hill.”

“Okay, you have thirty seconds to tell me it’s a bad joke. I’ll start counting. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight-” Bronn was one of the few people on the planet who knew why Sandor hadn’t been back to the Westerlands in ten years. His incredulity was completely understandable, to be honest.

“Not a joke.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Bronn.”

“Twenty-six.”

“Bronn. Shut the fuck up.” Sandor had perfected his “shut up now, or I’ll rip your head right off and shove it up your ass” inflection during 15 years of teaching idiotic first year students. He was very proud of it.

Bronn did, in fact, shut up.

“I need a break, okay? King’s Landing is a stinking shithole in the summer. I need to write my book. And…” Sandor tried to access some of the magic of last night, that yearning for home. To his surprise it was still right there, calling him. “I just want to go home.”

“Home, eh?” Bronn asked quietly. Sandor suddenly realized that he didn’t even know where Bronn was from. In Sandor’s mind, he had simply turned up at his table in the cafeteria one day, cracking jokes about the utter uselessness of wildfire as a defense weapon. Not a real historian, of course, but architectural history was close enough, and Bronn’s detailed knowledge of all things “castle” had been supremely helpful to Sandor’s research more than once.

Bronn continued and sounded uncharacteristically thoughtful. “I’m having the weirdest dèja-vu right now.”

“Oh?” Sandor began to make notes for his letter to the Stark woman. If she had the money laying around to buy houses like his, she was probably middle-aged. What would be the polite way to address her?

“Remember Jaime’s mental breakdown at Sevenmas? When he burned all his bridges in KL and moved back to Casterly Rock?” Bronn continued.

“Vividly.”

“He had a bottle of wine, quit his job, had that fight with the old lion... and said the same thing. ‘I just want to go home.’ That’s strange, isn’t it?”

“Hmm.” Sandor wasn’t really listening. In his mind, he was already walking through the grass of Clegane Hill.

2.3.

Sansa had a month to transfer the money to Eleanor Rogare’s intermediary, and she had honestly planned on asking her father at the earliest suitable opportunity. But on Mainday, Father went to White Harbor on a business trip. When he returned on Faraday, the latest estimate for this year’s post-winter roof repairs waited for him.

“It’s worse than I thought. We’ll have to open for tourists again, Cat,” she overheard her father’s mournful voice as she approached the library after dinner. Her mother gasped audibly, and Sansa padded away on silent feet. That obviously wasn’t the right moment.

On Smithday, her mother and Aunt Lyanna argued about Lyanna’s plans to refurbish her apartment in the west wing of Winterfell. Father had to break up the fight with sad eyes, and Sansa went to bed vowing to herself to try again the next day, when he was bound to be in a better mood.

But on Mothday, Sansa’s siblings and Cousin Jon all came to Winterfell, and Father was so happy and cheerful that she just couldn’t bring herself to destroy his good mood. It was rare for all Stark children to be under the same roof. Robb, the oldest at 26, spent most of his time on business trips down in the Riverlands. Arya and Bran, almost the same age at 20 and 19 respectively, both had left the country for their links. Bran’s choice to study futurology at Greatree in the Free Folk Territories, instead of going for a business link from Vale like his father and older brother before him, had initially led to some strife in the family. But that paled in comparison to the worries that Arya caused her parents. There was no injustice in this world that Arya could let go unchecked, and she had gotten into fights with lecturers and fellow students everywhere she went. At the moment, she had settled in Braavos, after pit stops in King’s Landing, Harrenhal and Riverrun, and every Stark was quietly crossing their fingers that her attempts at a criminal sciences link would finally bear fruit there. Fourteen-year old Rickon, the baby of the family, was the only one who still lived at home, and he valiantly fought against all attempts by his parents or aunt to spoil him rotten. Their cousin Jon, who was the same age as Robb, and as good as a brother to all of them, was with the Knightswatch and stationed at Castle Black.

Dinner on Mothday evening was such a happy affair, and Sansa hummed a little song to herself as she came down to breakfast on Strangerday morning.

Her parents already sat at the table in the breakfast parlour, quietly talking to each other. Sansa cheerfully greeted them, and immediately noticed their subdued replies.

_Had Arya brought back bad news?_ Sansa wondered silently, as she picked up some toast and spooned scrambled eggs on her plate from the sideboard where the housekeeper had arranged the breakfast dishes on a warming plate.

Her father cleared his throat as she sat down, and took a folded piece of paper out of the pocket of his suit.

“Sansa,” he began solemnly. “Your mother and I received a most worrying letter this week. Do you have any idea why Sandor Clegane might write to you?”

Sandor Clegane? She had heard that name before. Suddenly, it dawned on her and she could feel blood rush into her face. Of course… Clegane Hill. And Sandor Clegane was that maester from King’s Landing that Arya hated so much. He had written “Knights are for Killing”, hadn’t he? According to Arya, he was the ugliest man who ever lived, and Sansa had always imagined a gray, withered old man, with half-moon glasses and a bad comb-over.

“Are you - are you opening my letters?” she squeaked.

“Oh, of course not, dear,” Ned Stark shook his head at the idea of doing something as dishonorable as opening another one’s mail. “It was addressed to your mother.”

“Such a rude man,” her mother took over, shaking her head as well. “Anyone with good breeding would know that I am the only ‘Lady Stark’ of Winterfell. If he had addressed it to you as ‘Lady Sansa’, or even ‘Lady Sansa Stark’ if you want to be modern about it, of course, I would have never opened it.”

“Sansa, Clegane claims that you bought his house by mistake and that he wants it back. Did you, in fact, buy this “Clegane Hill” he talks about?” It was clear that her father thought the claim was ridiculous and only asked out of a duty to be thorough. Sansa felt her cheeks turn crimson.

“Yes, I did, Father.”

Her parents exchanged a bewildered glance. Out of all their children, Sansa had always been the sweet, obedient one. Even dutiful Robb could be quite headstrong, but she had never caused her parents a minute of worry since the day she was born. Sansa felt her parents’ disappointment acutely and wrung her sweaty hands beneath the table.

“I wanted to tell you today. Because I need the money to pay for it.”

Her parents stared at her in stunned silence.

“I… I have Grandpapa Tully’s money, don’t I? And I wanted a house of my own. I’m 23. Mother was already married and had two children when she was my age.”

“My darling,” her mother said slowly, “you can’t be serious. A house in the Westerlands?”

“How much?” her father asked through gritted teeth.

“200,000 gold dragons. That’s not even half my portfolio. I wanted to use the rest for the necessary renovations. You always say that real estate is the best investment, so I thought I made a good choice.” Sansa had thought nothing the night she bought the house, other than “how pretty”, but her parents didn’t need to know that.

Ned looked pained, and Catelyn patted his hand.

“That _was_ not even half your portfolio, my dear. Unfortunately there have been some market vacillations.”

“Market…?” Sansa whispered. Oh no…

“Some of your stocks lost drastically these last few weeks because of political tensions in Essos, and if I’d cash in the ones that are still worth something I couldn’t realize more than maybe 210,000 dragons at best.”

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

“But then everything is all right, isn’t it? That is enough to pay the purchase price!”

Her father shook his head again.

“We have made some inquiries about the house, my dear. The remaining 10,000 dragons won’t be enough to restore this…”

2.4.

“… derelict hovel.”

“Don’t call it that, Elly,” Sandor growled.

“I’ll call it whatever I want to call it! Do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for someone to take it off our hands? Almost ten years! Ten years, Sandy! And the day after someone is finally stupid enough to bid on this ruin, you come along and want to live there? Now, give me one good reason for why you’re messing with my blood pressure like that!”

“I just want to go home?” he offered tentatively. The truth might have worked on Bronn, but his sister simply scoffed.

“Home? Ha! When was he last time you even saw the house? Ten years ago? No, longer than that, wasn’t it? You certainly didn’t come to visit when Greg and I lived there. Have you _ever_ been back since father died?”

Their father had followed his Northern wife into an early grave when Sandor was twelve. Afterwards, the three Clegane children went to live with their mother’s best friend and her family on Casterly Rock. Joanna Lannister was a sweet woman who welcomed the orphans with open arms, despite her husband Tywin’s objections. Gregor, for once in his life well-medicated and in a good place with his therapy, became fast friends with the Lannister twins, Jaime and Cersei, while their younger brother Tyrion bonded with Eleanor. Sandor, awkward and already self-conscious because of his scars, was left alone in the middle, tolerated but not loved. Crazy about knights since he’d been a small boy, he took to spending all his time reading in the vast archives of the Rock. It was eye-opening. When he left to study history at Lannisport, his opinion of knights had wasted away like Gregor’s sanity. And while Sandor chased academic achievements, and Elly chased pretty boys with large wallets, Gregor chased the golden shot that finally put him out of his misery at age 34.

“No, I haven’t been back,” he admitted sheepishly. “But what does it matter? If it needs renovations, I’ll do them. Or hire someone. I don’t care either way. But, Elly… don’t you ever get homesick?”

She had left Westeros shortly after Gregor’s death and hadn’t been back since. He went over to Lys twice a year to visit for her birthday and for Sevenmas, but all his attempts to get her to return his visits had been in vain so far. As Sandor went on, he could again feel that strange pull that was beckoning him to the place of his birth. He could see it all so clearly before his inner eye, and it felt like he was speaking through a dream.

“Don’t you ever miss the Westerlands? The wide skies, and the white clouds, and the sun glistening on blue waters? How green the meadows are in spring and summer, the yellow grass of autumn, and the white solitude of winter? Don’t you ever miss the waves, and the beaches, the hills and forests? Don’t you miss hearty stew, and Western clams? Or running over to the ruins of the old Keep and play on the walls there? Standing on the tower and being able to see the sea behind the hills? Because I do. And I want to go home.”

He could hear a strangled sigh at the other end of the line.

“That was beautiful, Sandy. Who knew you’re such a poet?” Elly sounded like she was close to tears. Tears of laughter. “And no, I don’t miss it. I love Lys, and I love not living at the edge of civilization. But you know what that reminded me of? Cousin Rennie. We talked on the phone recently, and I got almost the same speech then, too. Had an epiphany over a bottle of wine, apparently, and moved to Lannisport.”

Sandor had never cared much for his second cousin once removed, who was seven years his junior. Right now, he could only vaguely recall a towheaded toddler, waddling after him on long legs, while he played knights with Elly and Rennie’s older brother Donny. He hadn’t seen that side of the family since his father’s funeral.

Eleanor sighed.

“I’m sorry, big brother. The contract is valid, and there’s nothing we can do about it now. Unless Lady Sansa agrees to sell the house back to you, Clegane Hill is no longer ours.”

“Well, then, I’ll just have to convince her to sell it back, won’t I?”

“You can try. Everyone who’s ever met you can attest to what a great diplomat you are,” she laughed, and he knew that she would stick out her tongue at him if she was in the same room right now. “I received the money yesterday and already transferred you your half. Lady Sansa will arrive at Clegane Hill next week and Old Roger at the inn will give her the keys. Although… I’m not sure if she even needs keys. I doubt there are any windows left. Oh, well. Good luck.”

A week would give Sandor enough time to pack up his belongings in King’s Landing, say goodbye to his chain candidates, and go on a final bar crawl with Bronn. Excellent.

“I don’t need luck. I have fate on my side.”

Eleanor laughed so hard that the sound of her loud wheezing through the phone woke up Stranger. Sandor hung up on her.

One more week, and he would have to face Sansa Stark. He wondered what kind of woman she was. Middle-aged, that much was certain. Dark-haired, probably, like all Northerners. Like his mother had been, who he could barely remember. An austere woman, hoping for a cheap bargain. Sandor smiled as his plan took form. He would appeal to her Northern sense of tradition first. Obviously, a Clegane of Clegane Hill had a superior claim to the house. And if that didn’t work, he’d offer her money. His book had sold well enough, and the advance on the next one wasn’t shabby either. No matter what, Clegane Hill would be his.

“Just you wait, Sansa Stark,” Sandor thought. “I’m coming for you.”

3.1.

Sandor Clegane met his fate around lunchtime on a warm Smithday in spring.

He didn’t die, of course. No, he simply got out of his car at the foot of Clegane Hill, let Stranger out, too, turned around, and stood face to face with the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life.

“Oh, hi!” the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life said cheerfully. “You’re just in time for lunch. I hope you are hungry!”

Sandor nodded automatically. After all, he was 6’11’’, had more muscle mass than the entire history faculty of Oldtown combined and the daily maintenance goal of 5,000 calories that came with it. He was always hungry.

The woman didn’t wait for him to say anything but skipped off along the overgrown path that led up the hill like she was a fucking wood sprite. Sandor shook his head, dazed and confused. Her auburn head shone in the sun, she wore a yellow dress with white flowers on it, and like the fool that he was, he followed her.

The path, light gravel in Sandor’s memory, had turned into a winding ribbon of sickly yellow winter grass. He’d walked that path a thousand times in his life, and a voice in him, the voice of a little boy who loved knights and his big brother, cheered at every familiar bush and tree. The foliage of spring couldn’t hide all of the view down to the valley, and the waters of the little pond at the foot of the hill glistened behind the trees. The woman’s gaze followed his eyes, and joy spread over her beautiful face.

“Oh, look at that little pond! Isn’t it lovely? Just like the one in ‘Florian and Jonquil’!”

Sandor had in fact written his chain thesis about the historical inaccuracies of the ‘Ballad of Florian and Jonquil,’ a paper so meticulously researched and viciously written that it had earned him an unofficial lifetime ban at the University of Maidenpool. The working title had been “A Fool and his Cunt,” and the memory of Barristan Selmy’s horrified face during his chain defense drew a smile on Sandor’s face. The girl, obviously prone to romantic delusions, returned his smile as if it had been meant for her.

“Look at her, you idiot!” Sandor’s heart yowled. “Marry her! Marry her right now!”

But his brain took over out of habit, and his brain was notoriously uncooperative when it came to conversations with beautiful women that looked like they had just stepped out of a tapestry. He forced his eyes back on the path and his goal.

Just one more turn, where the birch trees still grew, and there it was: Clegane Hill. Sandor halted abruptly. The house didn’t look as bad as Eleanor had claimed it did, but not that much better, either. Definitely not a derelict hovel, but obviously uninhabited for a long time. It hurt to see it like this, unloved and forgotten, and it hurt to remember how it had looked like in the days when his mother had still tended to the red climbing roses that used to frame the front door.

“Isn’t it the most beautiful house in the world?” the most beautiful woman in the world asked him, coming up to him again. She had her clasped hands raised to her chin and looked exactly like a little girl who had just found a real pony under the Sevenmas tree. Sandor, a man who had once used a perfectly phrased ten page article to figuratively disembowel a colleague from Sunspear for claiming that Arthur Dayne had been a perfect knight, shrugged and grunted.

The woman sighed and tore her eyes away from the house.

“We can take a look later, don’t you think? Let’s eat first.”

He should have wondered why a complete stranger invited him to eat with her, just like that. He didn’t. Instead he followed her like a little, fluffy lamb - or rather a gigantic, shaggy ram.

“What’s your dog’s name?” she asked. “He’s so tall. Just like his owner! You know what they say about owners and dogs.” She laughed, and her laughter was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. “Is he - you’re a he, right? Yes, you are, yes, you are, good boy - is he good with other dogs? My Lady is around here somewhere. She’s a very well behaved dog, don’t worry.”

Sandor tried to tear his eyes away from her, but his heart wouldn’t let him. “No,” it insisted stubbornly. “I’ve been quiet for years. Now brain gets to shut up and I’ll look at her for as long as I want to.”

The woman had stopped walking and stared at him, like she was waiting for something.

“Is he?” she said cautiously.

“What?” Sandor growled, very proud of himself. That was basically an actual sentence. He was conversing now! With her!

“Good with dogs?” she said, stressing every word carefully. “Because otherwise we will have to put them on leashes.”

Before he had the chance to grunt a reply, a large ball of fur exploded from the nearby undergrowth, hurled itself at Stranger, and disappeared into the woods again. The woman shrieked an outraged “Lady!” that didn’t have any effect on the creature that seemed to be a Northern diredog to Sandor’s dog-loving eyes. Stranger, who hadn’t met a dog his own size since he’d left his mother’s kennel, barked with joy and gave chase.

“Lady! Lady, stop it!”

“Don’t worry,” Sandor’s brain had used the opportunity to show his heart who was boss around here. “They’re only playing.”

Playing as happily as only two dogs large enough for five-year-olds to ride on could play together.

“Oh, yes. You are right,” the woman sighed in relief. “I’m sorry, but there was an incident in King’s Landing once, and I had to send her away to live with my parents. Oh well, we’re here now, and she can play as much as she wants.”

The dogs disappeared into the woods, happily yipping, and the woman led him around the house onto what had been the terrace once, before the seasons of ten years had covered it with a thick layer of rotten leaves.

A plaid picnic blanket was spread on the ground, and next to it a small campfire crackled in a ring of large stones. There was a cooler and a picnic basket, complete with a baguette poking out of it.

“Let’s eat,” the most beautiful woman in the world said. “Oh, and I know it’s early, but would you…”

3.2.

“… like some wine?”

Sansa fretted. Her mother had warned her that Brian might be odd, but the man obviously disliked her at first sight, glaring and growling.

“People from the monument protection agencies are all slightly odd, dear. Always remember that,” Lady Catelyn had counseled her. “You are very lucky that Tarth transferred to the Westerlands. The only helpful one of the whole bunch, if you ask me. We would have never been able to restore the east wing of Riverrun without Tarth, wouldn’t we, Ned? But you have to remember your courtesies, Sansa. Tarth is… a little unfortunate-looking. Very tall, too."

What an understatement. Brian of Tarth was the tallest man Sansa had ever met. And wasn’t it just like Mother, a true lady, to describe his scarred face as a little unfortunate-looking? One of his ears was missing, after all. Sansa was very proud of herself for showing absolutely no reaction to that.

“Yes,” Brian rasped. “Please!”

Sansa clapped her hands with glee and gestured for him to sit down.

“I don’t have much, I’m afraid,” she said as kneeled down next to him and got out the bottle of wine and two bottles of water from her cooler. “I stayed at a BnB last night, and brought just the necessities. We have potatoes and a trout we can wrap in foil and cook in the coals-”

A horrible thought flashed through her. That had to be a burn scar on his face. Had she been impolite to remind him of his injury? Quickly, she handed him the bottle of wine and hid her embarrassment by listing all the provisions she was getting out of her basket.

“-if you want that, of course. And I have a fresh baguette, and butter, and salt. Hard cheese from the Riverlands. A wild boar sausage from home. A jar of homemade pickles, a jar of salted Dornish olives. Two winter apples and a lemon, but the lemon is for the fish, of course.”

She dared to glance at him from the corner of her eye. He glared at the bottle of wine in his large hand.

“That’s an ‘Imp & Viper’.” His voice was very hoarse.

“Oh, yes! My parents had a whole case of it in the cellar, but they don’t care for it. So I claimed it for me. You know it? It’s my favorite.”

He nodded but didn’t say anything more. Wordlessly, she handed him two glasses and the bottle opener.

“Can I…?” She gestured to the fire with her chin.

“Oh, sure. Don’t care,” he rasped without tearing his eyes from the bottle of wine in his hand. Sansa quickly adjusted the coals and placed her already tinfoil-wrapped potatoes in the glowing embers.

“They will take some time,” she said. “Will you open the wine?”

He did, while Sansa got out cutlery and plates. She was suddenly glad she had taken her plain picnic basket with her to the Westerlands, and not her usual favorite with the Stark crest tastefully displayed on both silver and porcelain. This one came with sturdy steel forks and knives and simple white dishes. Brian of Tarth didn’t seem like the kind of guy to be impressed by someone who boasted with her ancient family name.

Sansa opened the first jar. The pickled eggplants were her own creation, perfected by year after year of filling hot jars under the watchful eyes of Old Nan, the Winterfell housekeeper. They had just the right amount of sour, just the right touch of mint and garlic, and were poured into a small bowl. Then came the olives. Myrcella had given her those, last Sevenmas. They hadn’t spoken since the whole Joffrey debacle, but Sansa still had taken the little jar of small dark Dornish olives with her from KL to Winterfell and from Winterfell to Clegane Hill. Their saltiness would go well with the cheese. She poured them carefully into another small bowl. Next, she cut up slices from the boar sausage, a family favorite from a little butcher’s in Wintertown, and cut up the apples in thin slices. She arranged them daintily on a plate. The last was the wedge of cheese. She had picked it up near the Twins, on her road trip down to the Westerlands, taken by its hardiness and the knowledge that it would keep well even without a fridge. She left it whole and placed it next to the apple slices. The bread, a fluffy baguette, was from the little grocery store in Cliff, as was the fresh butter and the salt. She put that aside for later.

Brian wordlessly glowered at either her or the wine the whole time.

The last thing to prepare was the trout. She carefully took it out of the cooler, unwrapped it and placed it on a large section of tinfoil. It was a beautiful large fish, already gutted and descaled. Sansa cut up her single lemon into slices, stuffed the trout with them, and finished it with a few curls of butter and a little salt. She was just about to close the tinfoil when a gruff voice interrupted her.

“Don’t. Not yet.” Brian got to his feet, surprisingly graceful for a man his size.

“But… why?”

“I’ll be right back. Leave that fish alone, you hear me!”

And he stomped off into the woods.

Sansa sat in front of her trout and repeated “they are all slightly odd, they are all slightly odd” to keep herself from crying tears of frustration. So far her plan to wine and dine Brian from the monument protection agency into a comfortable friendship that would allow her to put in new windows at Clegane Hill was a glorious failure. At least his dog seemed nice, although he and Lady might already be in the Reach by now. Sansa eyed the untouched bottle of white wine, but her inner Catelyn held her back. It wouldn’t be right to start drinking without her guest. Well, maybe just a sip? A few minutes of fighting temptation later, Brian came back from the direction of the walled garden. Wordlessly he put out one massive arm towards her. Sansa blinked away a tear, and her eyes focused on a few sprigs of rosemary he held in his hand. Rosemary would go beautifully with the trout and lemon.

“Oh, thank you…”

3.3.

“… so much,” the woman said, taking the rosemary he’d offered her. She looked close to tears which was a strange reaction to two measly sprigs of what was virtually a weed. The hardy rosemary that his mother had planted in her walled garden almost thirty years ago had prospered and spawned, and now it - or its… did plants have descendents?- covered a large portion of what had been a lovely herb garden and was now wilderness.

“You’re welcome,” Sandor replied, his mother’s memory unearthing long-forgotten courtesies.

“It still has its winter flowers,” the woman whispered. “Look. Tiny blue flowers in the winter sun.”

Sandor didn’t much care for the winter sun, not when he had her sitting right in front of him in the spring sun instead. Amid the old leaves and the fresh green in the trees, her auburn hair and her yellow dress made her look like a little bird from the summer isles who had lost its way. She certainly chirped like one.

“Little bird,” his heart sighed. “Yes, our little bird.”

With every minute he spent watching her, Sandor felt something loosen in his chest. Muscles that had been tight for years relaxed in his back and jaw, and his thoughts - usually dark and mostly revolving around killing his colleagues with blunt objects or pointy weaponry - began to fill with images of trees, grass, and various fauna. It was a little confusing, considering Sandor couldn’t remember ever having thought about insects before, but for some reason fantasies of butterflies fluttering around flowers popped up now. Flowers were suddenly important, too. Maybe he’d plant some at the Hill. Roses, for sure, and maybe these other ones that looked like roses, a little bit? What was their name again? And hadn’t there been this tall, climbing one with the blue flowers? Huh, he would have to buy a book on plants.

“How did you know about rosemary? Do you cook?” the little bird asked him while she put the finishing touches on the fish.

“If you fuck this up, I’ll stop beating, just like that,” his heart insisted and kicked his brain in its metaphorical shin. “You’re going to use our tongue and be nice, or - and I swear to the gods - I will end us.”

“I eat a lot of protein,” Sandor began, oddly relieved. That had been a real sentence - subject, verb, object and all. “You either learn how to season or lose your will to live.”

She laughed, and placed the tin foil packet with the fish on the embers.

“That will take about 15 minutes or so, and by then the potatoes will be ready, too. Um, we can start with the rest, I believe. What do you think?”

Sandor was thinking about how perfect her mouth was and had to fall back on silent nodding to cover that up. Instead of a suave reply, he filled their glasses. It just had to be a bloody “Imp & Viper,” hadn’t it? Her smile as he passed one glass to her made his heart beat as fast as only fencing with Bronn did.

“You know,” she said and gently swirled the glass. “I never cared much for wine, but this one…? It’s different, don’t you think?”

“It’s drinkable,” Sandor conceded. “But not great like one of the dry Dornish reds. Now, that’s all the wine a man needs. Or a woman.”

She acknowledged this afterthought with a nod of her beautiful head, and it encouraged him to continue.

“I only had this one once before. A Sevenmas gift from an old… hm. A childhood acquaintance. He’s the imp part of ‘Imp & Viper.’ The viper is another one.”

“Another old childhood acquaintance? Not a friend?” she asked, amusement written all over her face. “You must have been a pretty distant little boy.”

Old instincts drew Sandor’s hand to his face instantly, combing his hair over his scars, and he could see the light dim in her eyes.

"You made her uncomfortable,” his brain supplied. Sandor’s heart was too angry with him to speak.

I’m so sorry,” the little bird chirped in obvious distress. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have presumed-”

“No,” he interrupted her. “It’s all right. It happened when I was six. I played with one of my brother’s toy knights one day, and he pushed my face into the fireplace for it.”

She clutched her wine glass to her chest and stared at him with open horror.

“Your own brother? Over a toy?” There were tears in her eyes, and Sandor’s heart growled menacingly at the sight.

“He had some mental health issues,” Sandor shrugged his shoulders. “He got therapy and meds. And I wasn’t a top model anyway. Not the end of the world.”

“Nice save, right?” his brain preened, but his heart wasn’t satisfied. “She’s still sad. Fix it!”

Sandor lifted the yet untouched glass of wine.

“Let’s not talk about the past. To the future!”

He could see his future before him like an open book. He’d get Clegane Hill back and make it livable again. There would be another red climbing rose framing the Clegane crest over the door. He would write his book and finish the chivalry myth once and for all, then take a position in Lannisport and shift his research to the Second Long Night. And he would somehow, and there the details were a little fuzzy, convince this woman to marry him, have his children and grow old with him at the Hill.

“A good plan,” his heart agreed. “Definitely better than our old one of dying alone and being found after two weeks when the dog has already eaten our face.”

The little bird’s smile had returned to her lovely mouth and she had a far away look in her eyes.

“To the future,” she whispered.

They clinked their glasses together and each took a sip. Sandor had forgotten how smooth that wine was, and he could have sworn it had tasted differently last time. But before he had the chance to further analyze the flavors, voices floated to them from the other side of the house.

“I swear to the Gods, Lannister, if you are stalking me, I’ll…”

3.4.

“… hit you.”

Sansa put down her glass instantly. The woman’s voice had been agitated and angry. Maybe she needed help? But before Sansa could do or say anything, another voice came from the front of the house.

“Tarth, why on the planet would I stalk you? You of all people?”

Sansa had heard that voice before. Lannister. Jaime Lannister, the architect and horrible Joffrey’s much less horrible uncle. The last time she had seen him was at the Lannister family Sevenmas dinner, where he had taken off his prosthetic right hand like a gauntlet and had slapped his father in the face with it. It had been memorable.

“Oh, so it’s a giant coincidence that you suddenly appear in the Westerlands?”

“I am from the Westerlands! Why shouldn’t I move back home if I want to? No, what are you doing here? Aren’t there innocent men in the Stormlands for you to antagonize?”

At that moment, the two came around the corner, and Sansa gasped. In King’s Landing, Jaime Lannister used to wear his blond hair coiffed and neat in what her father disapprovingly called the “Prince Charming” style. The Jaime Lannister before her now had shaggy hair. And a beard.

Next to him stood an extremely tall woman. She was very blonde and had beautiful blue eyes, but overall was slightly… unfortunate looking. Oh, no. Jaime had called her Tarth, hadn’t he?

Both Jaime Lannister and the woman that was possibly Brian of Tarth stood still as they saw Sansa and the man that also possibly was Brian of Tarth sit on her picnic blanket.

There was a round of stunned staring. An unnatural quiet settled over the scene of four people trying to comprehend what was happening, and why it was happening to them. Only the distant sound of dogs happily barking disturbed the impression that time had frozen still.

Finally, Jaime Lannister broke the silence.

"Imp & Viper, what else? Do you have another glass, Sansa?”

Sansa’s inner Catelyn reared her head. This was her house, these people had arrived at lunchtime so they had to be guests. Only guests would come by at lunchtime. Sansa scrambled to her feet.

“Only water glasses, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll drink it from the bottle if I have to,” Jaime replied bitterly. “That wine has ruined my life.”

“Not only yours,” the tall woman muttered under her breath in the very same moment as a deep growl could be heard from the picnic blanket.

“Sansa?” the man who most likely wasn’t Brian of Tarth rasped. “Did he just call you Sansa?”

“Yes, I’m Sansa Stark.” Why did it feel like she was confessing a crime? “And if you’re not Brian of Tarth… who are you?”

“Brian of Tarth!” the tall woman exclaimed, scandalized. “Did he claim to be Brian of Tarth?”

“Tarth, quiet,” Jaime Lannister held up his hand. “Sandor’s having a breakdown. You do want to watch that.”

The man who definitely wasn’t Brian of Tarth glared at Sansa like a dangerous wounded animal. The burned corner of his mouth twitched wildly.

“My name is Sandor Clegane.”

For the rest of her life, Sansa would be ashamed of her first thought at this revelation. She couldn’t help it. It was there in the front of her mind and it was only thanks to her inner Catelyn’s iron sense of propriety that the first sentence out of her mouth wasn’t “Oh, so Arya was right. You really do have a bad comb-over.”

Instead Sansa stared at him, without saying a word. Her second thought was “But you’re not old at all, and your eyes are very gray, and I bet you look fantastic without a shirt on.” Her inner Catelyn frowned deeply at that.

Meanwhile, Jaime Lannister came up to her picnic basket, fished the two water glasses out of its depth, and poured himself a glass of wine.

“Come on, Tarth. Another round of life-ruining wine won’t hurt us.”

But the woman didn’t move.

“Sandor Clegane?” she asked, her voice incredulous but her face utterly unreadable.

“Aye,” he huffed.

“I’m Brienne of Tarth.”

Brienne, not Brian, Sansa chided herself and watched as recognition dawned on Sandor Clegane’s face.

“Brienne of Tarth,” he said slowly and got up, too. “Brienne of fucking Tarth.”

The two of them were almost the same height, Sandor Clegane only half a hand taller than her. Sansa and Jaime Lannister shared a quick glance of “What in the hells is going on? Do you know? No? Okay, me neither.”

From the way the two giants slowly walked towards each other, Sansa was half-afraid that a fight would break out that neither Jaime or she would have the power to break up.

As Sandor Clegane slowly spread his arms out wide, Sansa held her breath. But he didn’t attack. Instead, with a voice still full of surprise, he exclaimed:

“Little Cousin Rennie!”

“Cousin Sandy!” Tarth cheered and threw herself in his arms. Sandor Clegane, possibly one of ten men on the planet who could twirl a woman her size around like a little girl, did just that.

“So, let’s recap,” Jaime Lannister said, pointing with the water glass full of wine in his left hand. “The Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell: no longer my horrible nephew’s fiancée and in the Westerlands for reasons unknown. Brienne of Tarth aka ‘Little Cousin Rennie:’ pain in my butt from the monument protection agency in Riverrun, and in the Westerlands for reasons unknown. Sandor Clegane aka ‘Cousin Sandy’: professional knight hater from the University of King’s Landing and in the Westerlands for reasons unknown. And then here I am. Jaime Lannister, architect extraordinaire.” He took a deep gulp of wine. “In the Westerlands for reasons strange and obscure.”

Sansa straightened herself, and her inner Catelyn eyed her food spread with a scrutinizing look. It would a very light lunch, but it would be enough for the four of them.

“The fish is ready. Let’s sit down before we talk.”

And they did.

4.1.

Sandor was still trying to make sense of the various reveals of identity when Jaime and Brienne - no woman her size could be called ‘Little Cousin Rennie’ in good conscience- sat down on the picnic blanket next to him. The little bird fluttered away to do something or other to the food. So this divine woman was in fact Sansa Stark, evil hostage taker of innocent houses...

“Okay, okay, maybe I was a little rash,” his brain conceded. “Maybe she’s not actually evil.”

“You think?” his heart snorted derisively. After almost three decades of being locked away in the hidden corners of their shared consciousness, the sudden urge of non-killing related emotions had given it an unprecedented power. It was drunk on it, and on this excellent wine, and it wouldn’t let itself get locked away again without a fight. “Listen here, you big gray lump. This is the one woman in the world for us.”

“She is objectively attractive by the ideas of today’s mainstream society,” his brain nodded.

“She… oh, gods, you’re hopeless.” His heart pinched the bridge of its metaphorical nose. “Her eyes are bluer than the sea, her hair is like autumn light on a weirwood tree, her smile is the sun and the moon and the stars… Objectively attractive, our ass.”

His brain didn’t reply, because Sansa Stark had just bent over to pick up something from the picnic basket. Her behind was very attractive. Objectively speaking.

“Sandor,” Jaime’s hushed voice tore him from his reverie. “Sandor, buddy, your mouth’s open.”

“You have to leave,” Sandor whisper-growled back.

“What? Are you crazy?” Jaime, bless him, lowered his voice even more. “I drive an hour to look this shitpile over for you, run into fucking Tarth for my trouble, and now I have to leave?”

“What’s going on?” Brienne brought her head closer to the two of them. “Why are we whispering?”

“This doesn’t concern you. Stay out of this,” Jaime bit back at her.

“Oh, I heard ‘fucking Tarth’ so I do think it concerns me.”

Brienne and Jaime’s heads were very close together now. They eyes bore into each other, their cheeks were flushed, and Sandor suddenly felt extremely uncomfortable.

He cleared his throat meaningfully, and they broke their eye contact with the embarrassed air of two cats caught gearing up for a fight.

“You do have to leave. Just… for a bit.” He nodded towards Sansa Stark. “Leave us alone for a little bit, okay?”

Brienne’s face clouded, eyes traveling between him and Sansa.

“I don’t have to, you know, worry about her, do I?”

“Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?” Sandor bristled.

“Calm down, Tarth. He is a good one, I vouch for him. Not Gregor, definitely, if that’s what you’re asking. She’ll be perfectly safe, other than possibly dying of boredom if he starts talking about the tourney at Ashford again.”

Jaime drained his water glass of wine in one long gulp. Brienne, obviously not one to balk at a challenge, did the same. Jaime nodded at her with a faint, weirdly resigned smile, and then turned to Sandor.

“Okay, Bud. We’ll take a look around. You’re lucky I already had lunch.”

“That was smooth! Well done!” Sandor’s brain congratulated his heart. Meanwhile, Jaime and Brienne stood up, mumbled something to Sansa Stark who made disappointed little noises in reply, and walked off into the woods.

Moments later Sansa sat down on the picnic blanket and handed him a perfectly arranged plate of grilled trout and potatoes.

“She cooked all this over a campfire. She’s a goddess,” his heart sighed.

“Thank you,” he forced himself to say out loud. “Looks good.”

“Oh, you are very welcome! What a coincidence that you would be my first guest here.” She smiled at him and raised her glass to him. “I have to confess that I feel horribly embarrassed now. I was expecting a Brian of Tarth, you see, and when you appeared at the appointed time, I simply assumed…”

She blushed, and Sandor’s heart composed a little sonnett about roses on the spot.

“S’okay,” he bit out. Sandor’s heart growled at his brain in warning, and Sandor coughed. “I do have to apologize myself. I shouldn’t have shown up unannounced. But I assumed that you were still up North, and I wanted to take a look at the house with Jaime.”

They both silently stared at their plates for a moment, then they simultaneously took a sip of wine. Its fresh citrus flavors would go perfectly with the fish. And yet, Sandor could have sworn that last time there had been a hint of fresh apples in there, too, that he couldn’t discern today. He tried a bite of fish, and it was… perfect.

For the next few minutes, they sat and ate in something approaching a comfortable silence. Or a silence that got more and more comfortable by the second. The noon spring sun warmed the blanket underneath them, and brought out the copper tones in her hair like the halos painted around the heads of countless Maidens in countless little village septs. Birds sang songs in the trees, of courting mates and building nests. Now that Jaime and Brienne had disappeared, there was enough food for both of them. But it wasn’t the food that made Sandor feel sated and warm. Sansa Stark sat next to him. He had never been happier.

“May I apologize for not answering your letters about the house?” she broke the silence and bashfully tucked a strand of her marvelous hair behind her ear. “I contacted Mrs. Rogare, and she assured me that the contract was valid. I… It wasn’t right, I should have written to you.”

“Heart, what do we do now?” Sandor’s brain screeched in a panic. “Do we still want the house? Do we loom threateningly? Growl menacingly? Give her a speech about killing? Help me!”

“Calm down! Let me think!” Sandor’s heart had no prior experience with gorgeous women looking at him from beneath their eyelashes. The phrase “What would Florian do?” fluttered through his mind and was immediately shooed away. Whatever might happen, let it be known that Sandor Clegane did have some dignity left.

“Do something now!” Sandor’s brain urged. “We’ve been quiet too long! Fuck, fuck, mouth is twitching. Repeat: mouth is twitching!”

Sandor forced himself to look her right in the eyes. They were indeed as blue as the sea, and they held his gaze with such hopeful innocence that it made him feel dizzy.

“Don’t…”

4.2.

“… worry about it.”

Sansa’s spirit rose at his words. Ever since she realized that this man was indeed the Sandor Clegane, Mae (Lannisport) who had written her three increasingly agitated letters about giving back his house, she had tried to divine what the proper way to deal with the situation was. Arya had made him out to be such a monster, while in in fact he was the most fascinating man she had ever met. His eyes shone like polished silver, his body was a Braavosi master’s sculpture of the Warrior, his raspy voice sent shivers down her spine. Very interesting shivers.

“Eleanor Rogare is my sister,” he explained now. “I gave her a power of attorney to sell the house years ago. And the day I change my mind, I find out that you came along and bought it not even 24 hours earlier.”

Sansa’s heart went out to him. The last Clegane of Clegane Hill! Robbed of his birthright by a cruel twist of fate! She took another sip of wine. Sandor Clegane sat with his back to the house and its light sandstone walls made a perfect backdrop for his dark hair. Her fingers itched to sketch him. She hadn’t drawn anything in years, not since Joffrey had called her a try-hard dilettante, but Sandor Clegane’s distinctive face made her yearn for a pencil.

“I’m so sorry,” she began again. “But, you see, I cannot give up the house. My family thinks I’m mad for buying it, and…” She helplessly shrugged her shoulders. He came to her aid instantly.

“And you want to prove them wrong,” he rasped.

“Yes. Very much so,” Sansa admitted. “Just take a look around; it’s a diamond in the rough. Sure, it will take time, and money, and blood, sweat and tears. But I look at this house, and I see my future. I looked at the floor plan and there’s a room on the ground floor that could be my studio, and one that could be a study for my future husband. Enough guest rooms that my family can come and visit. And I see the future so clearly. My children, if the Gods will, growing up here and playing in the garden. A Sevenmas tree in the bay window every year. A wreath at the front door -”

She abruptly halted. Sandor Clegane was staring at her, and his face was unreadable.

“You’ve offended him,” her inner Catelyn decided. “You should apologize.”

“Nonsense,” a new voice floated to the front of Sansa’s mind. “He wants to fuck us. Quickly, unbutton the dress a little bit.”

“I do apologize,” Sansa said, blushing. “I shouldn’t remind you…”

He waved her apology aside wordlessly and took another sip of wine. His gaze had lingered on her chest just a split second too long.

“Told you,” the new voice said smugly. “Why don’t you tell him that he’s the husband in our little future scenario, hm?”

Sandor Clegane interrupted her thoughts just then, and Sansa’s fingers unconsciously touched the top button of her shirt dress at the sound of his voice.

“It’s just the same for me. I haven’t been back in twenty years, but somehow… It’s calling me. Just like you said. A family. Children playing here again… Roses climbing at the front door. The walled garden in full bloom. Maybe a little chicken coop. I always wanted my own little chicken flock.”

She couldn’t help herself. At his words, Sansa unbuttoned the top button of her dress. Her inner Catelyn hissed at such unladylike behavior, but the new voice simply laughed.

“I’m your inner Alayne, by the way,” it announced. “You realize that he’s the man of our dreams, right? Don’t let him get away or we will wake up one day and find ourselves married to an Umber. Or, gods forbid, a Bolton.”

“You said you had looked at the floor plan,” Sandor Clegane said thoughtfully. “Haven’t you been inside yet?”

Sansa shook her head. “I only arrived yesterday evening, when it was already dark. And today, I didn’t want to go in alone.”

“Where do you stay at the moment? Lannisport?”

“No, there’s a Bed and Breakfast in Cliff that allows dogs. It’s called -”

“-the House of Payne. Yes, that’s where I’m staying, too. Dogs allowed and extra large beds.”

“Beds. Extra large,” Sansa’s inner Alayne repeated the words like a connoisseur repeats “barrel-aged.”

“Speaking of dogs,” Sandor continued. “Stranger and Lady have been gone for quite a bit. Maybe we should call them?”

Right on cue, a disheveled-looking Jaime and Brienne tumbled out of the woods, a yipping pair of dogs at their heels. Jaime was picking leaves out of his hair, and just as a series of horrific scenes unfolded in Sansa’s vivid imagination - Lady biting another Lannister! Brienne attacked by a bear! - her inner Alayne’s calm voice interrupted her train of thoughts.

“Yeah, so those two definitely fucked.”

Huh?

“Definitely,” her inner Catelyn agreed. “And he was a gentleman and made her come at least twice. Just look how flushed she is.”

“If we play our cards right that can be us in a few hours,” her inner Alayne pointed out.

“Not without a wedding ring,” Sansa and her inner Catelyn said at the same time. Luckily, Sandor Clegane was distracted by a happy Stranger slobbering all over him, and Sansa hid between a little cough.

“Would you mind?” Alayne said pensively. “I know I wouldn’t mind being married to him. Just look at the size of his hands.”

“Hm,” her inner Catelyn pondered the thought. “He’s a history maester. Respectable enough. A Clegane of Clegane Hill, which isn’t first tier but not too shabby, either. He has the look of the North.”

“He loves dogs,” Sansa’s heart interrupted them both. “And he dreams of roses climbing a front door, and gardens in full bloom, and chickens. He’s the one. I’ve known since we first saw him.”

“Ready to look at the house, now?” Jaime asked when all of them stood together, the dogs circling around their legs.

“I have two copies of the floor plan,” Sansa smiled and discreetly overlooked that Brienne’s shirt was inside out and some buttons were missing. “I’m ready if you are.”

Jaime and Brienne grabbed one floor plan as if it was the most natural thing in the world that the two of them should go together. Sansa would have to share with Sandor Clegane. The thought of standing close to him, peering over his strong arms at the outline of her, no, their future home made her blush.

Sansa fished out the large cast-iron key from her bag and unlocked the front door with shaking fingers. She had never been inside the house before, and yet, as she turned the key, it strangely felt like…

4.3.

…coming home.

The last time Sandor had walked through this door had been the day after his father’s funeral twenty-three years ago. How the time had flown by. Crossing the threshold now, following the little bird, it felt like he had never left.

“I’m still not speaking to you, brain,” his heart hissed, drawing strength from yet another surge of emotion. “You disgraced us both. Talking about BnBs and floor plans, pah. How boring! What is wrong with reciting a poem now and then?”

Sandor sighed and turned to the little bird, while Jaime and Brienne disappeared down the hall.

“I can show you around, if you like. Lady Stark.”

“That would be very kind, Maester Clegane. Thank you.”

“Call me Sandor,” he replied. She rewarded him with a smile that made him weak in the knees.

“I’m Sansa,” she breathed. “Lady Stark is my mother.”

Sandor tore his eyes from her face with superhuman strength and gestured around the room.

“Vestibule.” Another wide gesture. “And the hall. This is the original building, with three large rooms and the staircase. The kitchen is in the west wing. That one was built, huh… I think it was thirty years after the house.”

The floor was covered in grime and the air was stale, but it didn’t smell damp. Dusty, yes, but not moldy. Sandor was immensely relieved.

Sansa danced through the hallway and turned right into the large drawing room with the bay window.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” she cheered. “These large windows! My piano can go here. And a large built-in bookcase and… Wait. Shouldn’t there be a fireplace, right there?”

She looked down on the floor plan in her hand and then at a spot on the inner wall. Something ugly, mean and vaguely dog-shaped reared its head deep in Sandor’s mind and sniffed the air.

“Not you again.” His brain - that had dutifully payed therapy bills for years now - rolled its eyes. “It’s been 30 years, shut up and go to sleep.”

Sandor’s heart, usually a firm ally of the other when it came to work against the brain, was too distracted by the way Sansa’s nose scrunched to care much about the past.

“There was,” Sandor said quietly. “But there aren’t any fireplaces now. My father had them all blocked up.”

“Oh,” Sansa breathed and threw a cautious look at his face. She looked sad again. Sandor’s heart, now firmly in control, wasn’t having any of that.

“Would you restore them, too? If you get to keep the house? Be honest.”

“Yes,” she said and looked him straight in the face. “I’m from the North. It’s not winter without an apple wood fire crackling in the fireplace and Sevenmas cards on the mantle.”

He saw it, as clear as day. The large fireplace, with Sevenmas cards from her family and from Eleanor, Bronn and Jaime on the mantle. And a crackling fire, for once cozy and non-threatening because she was the one who tended it with careful hands. Sandor nodded. “Let’s look at the other rooms.”

He showed her the dining room, the library, and all the other rooms that now stood empty and sad. But Sansa didn’t seem to see the dirt and the disrepair. She glided from room to room with little exclamations of joy, with “Grandmama Tully’s portrait can go here!” and a “I have just the right fabric for the curtains!”

“You sew?” his heart asked, desperate to use its chance to learn more about her.

She nodded absentmindedly.

“I sew and I do embroidery. Oh, I forgot you’re a historian, too! I have two links in art history from KL. Your specialty is knights, right?”

“Yes. Conquest until the Second Long Night,” Sandor replied, while his brain grumbled that art history wasn’t actually history but a link for bored rich girls to keep busy while they waited for snobby rich boys to propose to them.

Sansa beamed at him, and his heart beat faster again.

“It wrote my second link about the embroidery on the battle dresses of Queen Daenerys the First. Oh, I actually quoted your book! That passage about Jorah Mormont’s death? She had a bear embroidered on - but I’m probably boring you to tears.”

An hour ago, Sandor couldn’t have thought of anything more boring than Queen Daenerys and her battle dresses. Right now, it seemed to him the most captivating topic on the planet.

“No, go on. A bear?”

“Yes, in black silk from Quarth…” She happily chirped about the significance of cross stitching while Sandor’s heart silently picked out the names of their future children.

“It’s such a lovely place for a family,” she finally said while they stood in the kitchen.

“Are you thinking of settling down already?” he asked, disguising his personal interest in the topic with a heavy dose of growling.

She simply sighed. “It sounds silly, but my mother already had two children at 23, and five by the time she was 35. I don’t even want that large a family. Two, maybe three children. But I want them soon. A family of my own.”

“Yes, with us,” Sandor’s heart nodded silently. “She’ll have a family with us.”

“My parents actually had an arranged marriage. They only ever met once before their wedding day,” the little bird continued softly. “But they have come to deeply love another.”

“We have to ask her,” Sandor’s heart cried out. “We have to ask her to marry us right now!”

But his brain heroically slammed his mouth shut, and in that moment, Jaime and Brienne stomped into the kitchen.

“Have you decided yet? Who gets the house?” Jaime asked. The back of his shirt was surprisingly dusty and his lips slightly swollen, almost as if a very large woman had slammed him into a wall and kissed him senseless. “Who gets to lay down another 75,000 dragons?”

“75,000 dragons?” Sansa blanched. “So much?”

“At the very least. You’ll need new plumbing and new wires. The roof holds at the moment but should be recovered soon. I also recommend you have that shed-like addition out the back removed and move some walls around.”

“Move some walls around after going through the proper channels, of course,” Brienne added. She had cobwebs in her hair. Jaime waved her off.

“So,” he continued. “Who is it going to be?”

Sansa threw Sandor a pleading look. He turned to Jaime and Brienne.

“We haven’t…”

4.4.

“… decided yet.”

Sansa was still shaken by the obscene amount of money Jaime had estimated for the renovations, but her inner Alayne was unperturbed.

“That’s progress, right? He no longer outright denies our claim!” she said full of hope. “Although, I still think prattling on about our mother’s procreation habits was the wrong approach for a seduction strategy. We want him to marry all of us, not only our fruitful womb.”

“Taking our clothes off and jumping him,” Sansa’s inner Catelyn said icily, “isn’t that much of a seduction strategy, either. We want him to marry all of us, not only our… sexy bits.”

Sansa’s heart sighed. “He’s so tall. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him.”

“Be quiet, all of you.” Sansa’s brain spoke up for the first time. It sounded frighteningly like Ned Stark. “Don’t you see that we should be sad? This is all a dream, and dreams do end.”

Sandor, Jaime and Brienne wandered towards the front door, and Sansa followed them with hanging shoulders. Not even the pleasing sight of Sandor Clegane’s very toned behind could cheer her up. It was clear now that she couldn’t keep the house. Not if Sandor’s moral claim was so strong, and with her means reduced to 10,000 gold dragons in the bank. She was a daughter of Winterfell, she couldn’t bring shame over the family and ask strangers for money. Applying for a loan was simply out of the question, asking her parents for money unthinkable.

When they stepped out into the sunshine of a spring afternoon, she allowed herself a final look around at the green trees, the fresh, young grass where the front lawn would be, and the blue sky of the Westerlands. The glow of the spring sun dipped it all in a golden light.

“We could have been happy here,” her heart sighed. “So happy.”

“The house deserves better,” Sansa’s brain insisted. “Someone who can take care of it, and fully restore it. And Father was right. We can’t live in a ruin. Let’s tell him.”

She cleared her throat, and three pairs of eyes - green, silver gray and very, very blue - turned to her.

“You have it,” she said, and swallowed tears. “I… I can’t afford that kind of money for the renovation. So… you have it.”

Sandor Clegane was upon her in two large steps, and to Sansa’s immense surprise, he seemed angry.

“What are you talking about, girl? Of course, it’s yours.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, and to her mortification the movement dislodged a large tear. Another followed right after. “No, it’s yours.”

Sandor growled.

“It’s yours. I insist.”

Sansa whimpered.

“You’re very kind, but no, it’s yours.”

His eyes followed the trail of her tears down her cheek, and his face became even angrier.

“You’ll take the fucking house, okay? Flowers, and front door wreaths, and apple wood fires, and children and all. You’ll have all that.”

“But I can’t,” she breathed. “Not on my own.”

Something changed in his face at her words, the anger suddenly fading away until all that was left in his eyes was a longing so deep that it took her breath away.

“You don’t have to be.” His hand reached out, and a large thumb wiped the tears from her cheek. “You don’t have to be on your own.”

“You mean…?” Sansa looked at him from beneath her wet lashes, while her heart raced in her chest. “Would you…?”

His face froze above her, and she instinctively reached up and cupped his cheek like he held hers. Did she imagine it or had the glow of the spring sun become more intense? The world was dipped in sparkling gold, but all Sansa cared for was the silver of his eyes.

“Will you do it with me, Sandor? Make this house a home? Together?”

“Sansa,” he rasped and took her small hand in his, and she knew that his next words would make or break her chance of a happily ever after.

“Sansa," he repeated, and she held her breath. "Marry me.”

“Oh, yes, please,” she sighed, and then his mouth found hers.

Sansa tasted wine on his lips in the split second before all reasonable thought left her. No kiss she had known had ever felt like this. Not Theon convincing her to kiss him in the Godswood. Not Jeyne when they had practiced kissing together as awkward teenagers. Definitely not worm-lipped Joffrey. Sandor was forceful, yet tender, with just the right amount of tongue, and Sansa got lost in the magic of his kiss, only vaguely aware that she had wrapped her arms around his neck, and he lifted her up like she weighed nothing.

There was such a promise in this kiss. Roses at the front door, and a little chicken coop. Reading books together under shady trees in the summer heat, and afterwards going for a dip in the pond at the foot of the hill. Harvest dinners down in the village, and coming home from a long walk through autumn leaves to do some embroidery while he read to her from his latest book. Playing her piano for him while winter storms covered their garden in snow and the dogs slept in front of the fire. Beach trips and romantic dinners in little restaurants in Lannisport. And a promise of tall sons and a daughter that looked like Arya.

When they pulled apart and Sansa returned to reality, she realized that they had an audience. Stranger and Lady were the least interested ones, as they sat on their haunches with their tongues lolling out, but Brienne outright stared at them, red-faced and embarrassed. What it was she was embarrassed for, Sansa couldn’t say. Jaime looked vaguely interested, but mostly extremely pleased with himself.

“And you didn’t believe me,” he said to Brienne. “Told you that would happen.”

“Do you mean it, Sansa?” Sandor rasped, pointedly ignoring Jaime. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, yes, I will,” she breathed and clung to him. “The sooner the better.”

“The sooner the better?” He pulled up his good eyebrow. “There’s a sept down in Cliff. Today?”

“You’ll need a license,” Jaime interjected. “If you want this to be legal. But you can get one tomorrow morning, no problem. Speaking from personal experience.”

Brienne’s already shocked face turned an even deeper shade of red.

“Oh gods, no! I’m not married!” Jaime exclaimed and pulled her towards him. “My brother eloped with an escort, that’s how I know.”

“Oh, thank the Seven,” Brienne murmured as she leaned down and kissed him. Stranger and Lady watched with interest. Apparently humans did have a mating season after all, who knew?

Sansa and Sandor had already forgotten again that other people existed on the planet.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered.

“Tomorrow,” she breathed in reply.

Then they kissed some more.

On the blanket behind the house, next to Sansa’s picnic basket, a forgotten bottle of “Imp & Viper” sparkled in the sunshine.

It was empty...

5.1.

After every marriage proposal there is a slightly awkward moment of “did this just happen for real?” For some couples, it’s fleeting, nothing more than the blink of an eye, and it doesn’t even register. For others, it’s over in a smile and a shoulder shrug. And for a minuscule sample group, it turns from an slightly awkward moment into a very awkward minute into an extremely awkward car ride down the hill where you met for the very first time an hour and 23 minutes ago.

“So,” Sandor finally began, after the infernal noise Lady and Stranger made in the backseat had died down to a level that made polite conversation possible. “You and I, huh?”

Jaime and Brienne had left, hurriedly and in separate cars, but promised to be back tomorrow afternoon, just in time for the wedding to act as their witnesses. After they had gone, Sansa had jumped into Sandor’s car as if it was the most natural thing in the world to leave her car parked in the middle of nowhere. Northerners...

“How did this happen again?” Sandor’s brain whispered in a dark corner of his mind. “Seriously, what the fuck happened just now?”

“Shut up and drive,” his heart bit back. “I’m in charge, and I - oh, she’s talking!”

“You and I, Lady, Stranger, and the house,” the love of his life replied with a sparkle in her river-blue eyes. “Oh, by the Mother, there is so much to do! We will have to talk to the septon in the village, find you a cloak, have dinner somewhere. Maybe go to Lannisport today? And unpack a little - have you unpacked yet? No, you went straight to the house, right? Do you have a suit with you? We have to pick up the license in Lannisport tomorrow, we could still buy one then if you don’t find one today. Can you just buy one? Or… with your measurements, do you need to have one made? Oh, and I will need a dress! And, of course, the cloaks. Did I mention the cloaks already? I think I have. I have mine with me, naturally. Do you have one? Sorry, what a silly question. Why would you have a wedding cloak? Would you like one in Clegane colors? Was that the Clegane crest over the door, with three dogs courant? If I find a sewing machine -”

She stopped abruptly as he parked the car on the side of the road. Her cheeks were flushed from excitement, her hair framed her beautiful face like a cascade of rose petals, and her lips were… He couldn’t think of anything to fully convey the utter perfection of her lips.

“Chirp, chirp, chirp,” he laughed instead and kissed her lovely mouth. “Now, my chirping bird, why do you have a maiden’s cloak with you ‘naturally?’ Should I be worried about your intentions? Come to the Westerlands to hunt eligible bachelors?”

“That’s good flirting,” his brain conceded. “We’re improving.”

Sansa shook her head with wide eyes. “It was my first link project, and I took it with me in case I get a job interview at the museum in Lannisport. A traditional Stark maiden’s cloak, like it would have been used during the War of the Five Kings. I made it myself, just like a lady back then would have done it. I began with wool from one of our own flocks, from white and from black sheep. Spun the wool by hand and then dyed it in our kitchen if needed. I wove the cloth on a loom we still had in the attic, sewed and embroidered it entirely by hand. It took a long time, almost half a year, but it was worth it. I got a gold.”

Sandor’s first link project had been a 85 pages long treatise on the utter worthlessness of King Aerys’s Kingsguard, and he had written it in six days, most of them spent in a drunken haze. He, too, had gotten a gold. Thinking of her, toiling over a masterpiece like that for weeks on end, it lost its shine.

“I have a suit, but not a cloak,” he offered her. “I think my sister has our mother’s still, but it would take too long to have that shipped from Lys. We might find something in Lannisport tomorrow? The Clegane colors are yellow and black. Yes, three running dogs -”

She kissed him out of the blue, not that Sandor complained. She smelled like lemons and something green, fresh like spring, enticing...

“Don’t bite her!” Sandor’s brain hurriedly spoke up from its corner. “She won’t like it if you bite her!”

“It would have been a love bite,” his heart growled back. “Love bites are okay.”

“Not yet. Later maybe,” his brain insisted. “Just go with what she wants for now. She has a hand in our hair. We can do the same.”

Her hair was soft and cool to the touch, gliding through his fingers like water, and her hand tugged on his own just right. Sandor’s brain shut up for a good long while, and his love-drunk heart kept track of all her minute reactions to his attentions. She moaned as he dragged his tongue along the inside of her lower lip, she shuddered when his fingers dragged over her ear, she… oh, she was perfect and he reveled in her.

“What was that for?” he asked her breathlessly when they entangled minutes later.

“I don’t know,” she said, with a little crease between her brows, as if she really didn’t. “You said something about dogs, and I thought about the wolf’s head on my cloak, and then I simply needed to kiss you. Do you mind?”

“No complaints at all,” Sandor said. “Let’s see if it works a second time? Dogs.”

She laughed at that, but she did kiss him again, too.

Usually, it was a seven minute drive down the winding little road that led from the Hill to the village of Cliff, and only 25 minutes on foot over the country path that took a shortcut through the fields.

It took them an hour.

5.2.

The House of Payne, and surely the proprietor had to know that that wasn’t the right kind of name for a BnB, was tucked away in a small lane off the main street of Cliff. An enormous white lilac stood in full bloom in front of an old-fashioned cottage, and blood-red geraniums grew from window boxes shaped like a row of human skulls.

“That’s… interesting.” Sandor nodded at the flowers. “But Ilyn Payne has always been a little strange.”

“Has he? I actually haven’t met -”

The door opened just as Sansa was about to unlock it. But instead of the mysterious Ilyn Payne that Sansa hadn’t met yet, she found herself eye to eye with the lanky young man who had shown her around the day before.

“Oh. Hi, Pod!”

Podrick Payne didn’t seem to realize that Sansa had spoken to him; instead, he stared at Sandor with the wide-eyed look of a frightened rabbit encountering a predator. Then he shook himself, and gestured for them both to enter.

“Your key,” he mumbled and handed a cast-iron key similar to her own to Sandor. “Room’s there.”

“Maybe all the Paynes are a little strange,” Sansa whispered to Sandor, as Pod wordlessly shuffled down the corridor. “Let’s freshen up a bit and meet outside in half an hour.”

Sandor nodded, pressed a quick to her lips that sent shivers down her spine, and disappeared into his room with Stranger at his heels. Sansa and Lady went into their own.

Sansa had unpacked the night before. Her summer dresses, much too light for the still-cold North but just right for warm spring days in the South, hung pretty and fresh in a little cedar wood wardrobe in the one corner of the room. Everything else was neatly stacked in the chest of drawers in the other corner. When she had chosen what to bring with her to the Westerlands, she hadn’t envisioned the need for something to wear on a stroll through Lannisport with her fiance on the eve of her wedding. What would Sandor wear? She had to look good next to him, and with his coloring… Maybe something black? After careful deliberations, she chose dark gray skinny jeans, a cozy black sweater and a white cardigan in case the evening would get chilly. Stark colors seemed fitting for her last day as a Stark. She only had two black pieces in her wardrobe anyway, this sweater and a black velvet maxi-skirt Arya had talked her into buying. Stark colors… there was something at the edge of Sansa’s mind. Something to do with her family that she couldn’t remember, something she was meant to do. Sansa shrugged it off. If it truly was important, it would come to her in time.

After combing her hair into a high ponytail and changing her clothes, there were still almost 20 minutes left before she was to meet Sandor. Sansa’s eyes fell on the long, white curtains that hung at the window. It was a thick linen fabric and definitely at least 70 years old, if not older. Women in the Westerlands had still worked on their dowry with their own hands back then. She rubbed the fabric between her fingers and its potential sang to her.

Five minutes later, she found Pod in the small vegetable garden behind the cottage. Another ten minutes later, Sansa stood in the tiny, old-fashioned kitchen of the BnB, four curtains on the counter next to her, and critically watched almost-boiling water in a large pot. Pod hovered behind her with a crisp 50 dragon note in his back pocket.

“Let’s put in a little more salt,” Sansa said. “We need that as a fixative, you know? Okay, as soon as the water boils, you put in the fabric. Let it simmer for an hour. I’ll be back with more turmeric then.”

Pod nodded and reverentially took over the watch, while Sansa slipped away to meet her fiancé at the front door. Sandor was already waiting for her, dressed in black jeans and a red sweater with a black dog’s head on it, the actual dogs by his side, and she flew into his arms.

“Do you mind terribly,” she asked after very thorough ‘I missed you so much’ kisses, “if you don’t go to Lannisport today after all? I found everything I need for your cloak, and we could try out the local inn for dinner?”

“The local inn was a shithole twenty years ago, and I doubt it has changed much,” Sandor growled. “But if this what you want, then, sure. Let’s do that.”

Sansa showed her appreciation by kissing him again. It was astounding how much fun it was, to be held by his strong arms instead of Joffrey’s noodly appendages. And his kisses were nothing like Joffrey’s, too, whose worm-lips and tendency to slobber couldn’t compare to Sandor’s masterful tongue.

She sighed happily into his broad chest once they pulled apart.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered and kissed the top of her head.

“Tomorrow,” she whispered back. Tomorrow they would be man and wife, and, Sansa was already sure of it, their wedding night would be a very happy one.

“Let’s go and find the septon, first,” she suggested as they stepped out of the front door into the sunshine. Lady and Stranger strained against their leashes, ready to explore, but both stopped instantly at a quiet “Steady!” from Sandor. He was so wonderfully commanding.

“And after the septon, I’ll have to go and buy some more turmeric, and then I’ll have to find a girl called Jeyne Westerling and borrow her sewing machine, and come back here to finish the dye, and then we can have dinner.” Sansa knew she was rambling but at the same time she couldn’t stop herself or she’d burst from happiness.

“Hold on, little bird,” Sandor smiled down at her. “What’s this about…”

5.3.

“… turmeric?”

Her eyes shone as bright as stars.

“I found wonderful white linens, and I’ll dye them yellow with it. Sew them together and add black trimmings from a skirt of mine I’ll cut up. For your cloak? It won’t be very elaborate, I’m afraid.”

It sounded elaborate enough to Sandor, but then again, he hadn’t spent half a year of his life hand-spinning wool for a maiden’s cloak. As they walked hand in hand through the village, her hand in his as natural as breathing, a part of him wondered about the change the village had gone through since he’d last been here. Houses that had stood empty were restored and well-kept, and daffodils grew in window boxes along the main street.

In Sandor’s youth the village septon had been a stooped old man with a voice like a fog horn. When they rang the bell at the septon’s cottage of Cliff, the door was opened by a pretty young woman with chestnut brown hair and a shy smile. It faltered as she took a look at his face. Just when Sandor hoped that Sansa hadn’t noticed, he could feel her grip on his hand tighten.

“Septon’s at home?” Sandor asked, slightly rougher than he had intended.

“Y-yes,” the woman stuttered.

“Would it be possible for us to talk to him, please?” Sansa took over smoothly. “My name is Sansa Stark and this is my fiancé, Sandor Clegane. We would like to get married at the village sept tomorrow, on rather short notice but we hoped it would be possible nevertheless.”

The woman’s smile returned at Sansa’s words, and as she stepped out of the doorway the sunlight caught in the crystal pin of the Reformed Faith at her collar.

“I am the septon,” she said softly and offered a hand to Sandor. “Septona Jeyne Westerling. Why don’t you come in?”

Despite her shy demeanor and her soft voice, her handshake was firm. Sandor’s astonishment increased as Sansa cheered next to him.

“You’re Jeyne! Oh, how wonderful! Pod said you had a sewing machine I could borrow!”

It turned out that the Honorable Septona Jeyne Westerling of Cliff, solely responsible for the eternal souls of 748 people, was not only generous with her sewing supplies but also made fantastic coffee.

“What do you expect from the ceremony?” she asked as they sat in comfortable arm chairs in her little sitting room. “If it’s on short notice,” and here she threw a quick, questioning glance at Sansa’s flat stomach, “I assume there won’t be many guests.”

“Just two guests,” Sansa said, with a hand on her stomach and an answering shake of her head. “Or three if Pod wants to come.”

Septona Jeyne nodded. “You will walk down the aisle on your own?”

“We’ll go together.”

The two women turned to Sandor simultaneously. He cleared his throat and repeated himself with more conviction.

“We’ll walk down the aisle together. She isn’t property to be given away.”

Sansa beamed at him, and Septona Jeyne nodded again.

“Usually the Faith insists on a three-months-long wedding preparation class, but, to be honest, most of it has been outdated for decades. There hasn’t been a single recorded case of fate manipulation since the authorities cracked down on the Rhaegar Targaryen commune at Harrenhal almost 30 years ago, and in the handbook it’s still treated as if girls from good families running off with strangers is a daily occurance. Asshai’i love potions have been illegal for more than 100 years. No, I’ll waive the class for you. Personally, I don’t see anything wrong with a quick wedding, if the couple is sure.”

“We are very sure. As sure as sure can be,” Sansa said softly. Sandor kissed her for that as soon as they were alone again.

After the Septona, Sansa dragged him to the small village grocers where she bought its entire supply of turmeric and three pairs of rubber gloves. Back at the BnB, they found Pod hunched over a softly simmering gigantic pot full of… fabric?

“Why don’t you take the dogs for a run, my heart?” Sansa said as she gently but firmly pushed him out of the kitchen. “Pod and I will be busy for another hour or so.”

He did take the dogs for a run, and what a run it was. They left Cliff behind and followed a little path between the fields over to the Hill, circled it and followed the little brook to the pond, where the dogs drank greedily. Sandor wiped sweat from his face and cooled his wrists in the clear water. Elly and he - and Gregor, too, on his good days - had played here as children before their parents died, and their mother had watched over them from underneath that tree over there, always one eye on them and one in a book. For the first time in almost 30 years, the memory held no sting. Sansa’s and his children would play here, too.

Lady padded over to him, her snout wet and her head held high, and he ruffled her fur.

“Okay, kids, off we go!”

When he returned Sansa was nowhere to be seen, and he quickly showered and got changed. Sandor finally found her in the small garden behind the BnB, where four sheets of Clegane-yellow fabric gently swayed in the breeze.

“Ready to go out for dinner?” she asked, and took his offered arm. “Let’s see what exciting cuisine Cliff has to offer!”

Just like the septon, just like the village, the inn had changed, too. Or the inn itself hadn’t changed much and probably hadn’t since the reign of Daenerys the First. It was its guests that had changed since Sandor had last been here for Gregor’s wake. Instead of a small group of men huddled in a corner, smoking pipes and debating local politics over tankards of ale, the room was filled with lean women and men, wearing skin-tight lycra in various shades of neon: cyclists making a last stop before Lannisport. Every single one of them vaguely reminded Sandor of his dentist. A chalk board at the bar announced that today’s specials were shepherd’s pie and kale salad.

Ronny at the bar, who had been only a year above Sandor in school, was a familiar face at least. He nodded at him in silent recognition and got a nod in return.

“Clegane,” Ronny said, after they’d reached the bar, and continued wiping a glass. “Pod said you’re back. For good? That your lady?”

“I’m Sansa,” the love of Sandor’s life replied with her stunning smile. “Sandor and I are going to get married at the sept tomorrow, and we are going to live at the Hill.”

“Is that so?” Ronny put down the glass, and tugged at his lip, deep in thought. “In that case I have a table for you. Always got one reserved for the locals.”

5.4.

Sansa had dreamed of her wedding day ever since she was old enough to say “traditional with a modern twist.” In her old bedroom in Winterfell, three meticulously organized binders chock-full of beautiful white gowns torn from bridal magazines, increasingly more proficient Stark cloak designs, seating ideas, and song lists waited for her big day. Her Pinterest board “wedding ideas” had over 12.000 followers. But now that the time had come, she didn’t remember all these things existed. How could she, when there were more important things to think about, and so much to do, from the moment she opened her eyes in the morning?

Sandor and Sansa left Cliff with the sunrise, a sleepy Pod in charge of the not-at-all sleepy dogs, and drove to Lannisport. They ordered breakfast in a café that overlooked the harbor, where Sansa noticed for the second time that Sandor ate about as much per meal as all her brothers combined. Afterwards, they split up to run their own errands; Sandor had to pick up their wedding license, and Sansa had to find herself a wedding dress.

In some of Sansa’s daydreams, her mother and Jeyne Poole were there on the day she’d buy her wedding dress, and sometimes Arya, too. They’d drink champagne and would clap at dresses and veto others, and when Sansa would finally walk out with the perfect dress, they’d all cry. In other daydreams, she’d sewn the dress herself, thinking over patterns and fabric samples for weeks, picking just the right shade of lace.

In reality, she walked into the first high-end vintage shop she saw, with only the faintest hint of a thought in the back of her mind that there were people on the planet she was supposed to do this with, and bought the second dress she tried on.

“That’s…” the saleslady gestured at her, at a loss for words. “That dress doesn’t fit anyone, usually. And on you…”

Sansa twisted and turned in the mirror. It even had a little train. “It’s perfect. I’ll take it.”

Whoever the Lysian model had been that this particular designer had based his patterns on 90 years ago, she could have been Sansa’s twin. The dress, a dream in champagne-colored velvet, wouldn’t need any alterations. She bought shoes, too, in a small shop around the corner. She would have towered over Joffrey in these sky-high heels, but with Sandor? Sansa laughed for joy as she left the shop.

They met up in front of Lannisport City Hall, where Sandor waved a piece of paper in greeting, and they kissed until a passersby whistled at them.

Back in Cliff, Sansa packed everything she needed and went over to the Septon’s cottage to sit down at Jeyne’s sewing machine. As she’d told Sandor, there wasn’t enough time to give his cloak all the little details that were tradition. But if she couldn’t embroider the dogs of his crest than she would at least sew them on in black velvet. Sansa made several quick sketches of the official Clegane dogs as well as of Stranger before she was happy, and then added one of Lady on the contact paper, too, in the spur of the moment. She cut up the rest of her skirt and used it as piping to trim the cloak with. It was a tremendous amount of work for so little time, and Sansa had never worked as deliberately in her life. Years of practice came together in this moment, where no movement must be wasted, where there was no room for error. The gods were with her, and between scissors, sewing machine, and ironing board, Sansa created a miracle out of old curtains, an unloved skirt, and a spice rack staple.

“Sansa?”

For a short moment, she heard her mother’s voice, and for an instant the full scope of what she was about to do became crystal clear. To get married without her parents there, without her family and so far from Winterfell! What was she thinking? No, she needed to call her parents and at least tell them - but something bright and fresh and green gently wiped these thoughts away.

And, of course, it was only Jeyne’s voice.

“Sansa, your friend Brienne is here.”

Sansa looked up, almost done with darning in the last thread, and saw Brienne hover over Jeyne’s shoulder in the doorway, wearing a black men’s suit, a bouquet of white roses in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“We thought you might need some help with getting dressed. Don’t brides need help with that? And I brought some ‘Imp & Viper,’ too. In case of nerves, you know.”

“Are you done with the cloak?” Jeyne asked. “It is so beautiful.”

“Yes, I’m done,” Sansa said and stretched her arms over her head. “Would you bring it to him, please, Jeyne? And Brienne can help me to get dressed. Brienne, I think I’ll have a little sip of wine with you.”

When Sansa left the cottage with Brienne by her side, she had white roses braided into her hair and her prized Stark cloak around her shoulders. Brienne, however, had finally picked up on Sansa’s gentle nudges that a bow tie might be slightly too severe on her and that it would be okay to unbutton her shirt a little bit. The bow tie was currently casually thrown over her shoulder, and the wine had brought a flush to her cheeks and a sparkle to her stunning eyes.

Sandor waited for them in front of the little village sept, tall and proud like a Northman, and her heart fluttered happily at the sight of him. His suit was obviously custom made for him and the cloak hung from his shoulders like a dream. Only one dog on it was the traditional one, the other two bore the likeness of Stranger and Lady.

“Finally,” he rasped, and sent shivers down her spine with just this one word. “I couldn’t have waited another moment.”

Sansa kept herself from kissing him with superhuman strength and hooked her arm in his instead.

“Not much longer,” she breathed. “Not much longer, my love.”

In front of them, Jaime approached a ramrod Brienne like a hunter approaches his prey, looking her up and down twice before his gaze settled on the exposed patch of skin at her throat. Finally, he swallowed, and murmuring something that sounded like “you’ll be the death of me, wench,” he took Brienne’s arm.

The procession entered the Sept, where Pod was the only one present in the pews. Septona Jeyne waited for them between the statues of the Mother and the Father.

Sansa floated. Maybe parts of her body touched the ground still, but if they did she couldn’t tell. She was here with Sandor and that was where she had to be. This was her fate.

“With this kiss I pledge my love…”

And they did.

When Sansa came back from her happy cloud, it was already dark outside. To her own surprise, she found herself on Sandor’s lap in the village inn, feeding him surprisingly good wedding cake by hand. Jaime and Brienne were making out in a corner, Pod and the dogs were nowhere to be seen, and Ronny at the bar wiped glasses with the stoic air of a man who has seen it all while he talked to Jeyne about fencing.

“Let’s go,” Sandor whispered. “I have a surprise for you.”

He didn’t lead her back to the BnB as she expected but to his waiting car instead.

“Where are we going?” she asked, happy to follow him anywhere.

“Home,” he replied with a smile. Of course.

When they arrived at the Hill, a large pavilion had been erected on the front lawn, as if an errant knight had pitched his tent there on the day before a big tourney, ready to try his fate at jousting on the morrow. Fairy lights illuminated it, and when Sandor opened the flap for her, Sansa gasped in delight. The ground was covered in rugs. Countless candles shone, and a brazier stood in the corner, heating up the spring night. Best of all was the large bed in the middle of the room, inviting them with fur blankets and large gobelin pillows. It must have taken Sandor all afternoon to set this up, and although Sansa’s expert eyes could tell that it was faux fur, just as the brazier and candles were electric, she loved him all the more for it.

“You haven’t been the only busy one today, Lady Clegane,” Sandor murmured behind her. Then he picked her up and carried her to bed.

It was a very happy wedding night indeed.

THE END... for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, there used to be a Braime chapter at the end, but I was never fully happy with it. Maybe one day...
> 
> Yes, I tested dying with turmeric first. Worked like a charm!
> 
> Yes, it's supposed to be Septona (priest) instead of Septa (nun). The reformed faith is based on the Anglican church. 
> 
> And, yes, I hope you liked it :)


End file.
